Pay me grandeur,
for your soul isn't as beautiful as mine.
Lighten my heart,
or else it sways with imbecilic rhymes.
Its onerous to be in fine feathers,
when all thou yearn for is to ring the blues.
She used to call it the yammerings,
little was she versed with the taken down fortunes.
They savor in the scads of worth,
they can't ken on rueful bleak endearments.
All they can do is to feel vibes,
of how vile can we be in dumps so despondent.
Yet I was a sacrosanct feller,
to have gleaned on her forbearing cold shoulders.
Yet of many unforgiven phrases for her,
She will always be there in my red letters.
She did watch over, thought so I,
little did I catch the drifts of incog notions.
Little does the gusto see daylights,
when rapted in the zealotry of affections.
They came like some foredestined bustle,
the wintertide waited lay for the Yule.
Then wailed in the lorn descant,
I did pile on the stance over an alighting fuel.
That lullaby was up to snuff,
It still hums the waves of grizzled impeccability
As I try to contrive a modish canticle,
they all echo the dead ringer eventually.
Thou caught the drift of the yearning,
that I latched on to you nonetheless.
Thou as well wielded alike,
Ached for some other nevertheless.
Yes, we are well wishers still,
would wring to scythe the any of it,
for ya still nested in my core,
all hankered for to lay docked in on with.
Very much taken in,
ya bought into all thy soul pined for.
Zilch was me, just some memo,
dishing up some warm fuzzy honor.
Still fazed on the songs and dances,
yet a lot alibi on to knock off precluded wear and tear.
Thy was a slice very much elite,
unreal enough for me to push the pencil over and over.
